The search continues.
We approach a historic building in Mt Vernon.
A man is to show us some apartments.
He turns out to be a famished black man seated on the front steps of the building in a torn t-shirt and paint splattered pants. He's toothless and seems to have incredible trouble keeping his eyes open. He fumbles with a plastic bag full of keys that he drops as we walk around. As he trips going up steps and mumbles unintelligible words.
He shows us units that look like holding facilities for the insane. One in the basement seems more like a maze. A collection of rooms linked together for some odd reason.
Afterwards he takes us in the maintenance room a few doors down for an application, where the manager and owner sit around a cluttered table of miscellaneous junk in the heat.
The owner is a plump tan skinned man with a European accent so thick that I base all of my responses off social cues. He has a hard, gritty handshake.
We say we'll show ourselves out.
We rush down the hall trying door after door trying to get back to the world.
I throw the application in a trash can outside.